


Dirk and Dirk By-Products

by jadebloods, t34lbloods (perculious)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Homestuck Shipping World Cup, M/M, POV Dirk Strider, POV Second Person, Recipes, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/perculious/pseuds/t34lbloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bad storm forces Dirk to rely on the magnanimity of his future self for survival. (Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013 Main Round 3: Taboo)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirk and Dirk By-Products

**Author's Note:**

> This was Team Circledirk's entry for the Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013 Main Round 3: Taboo. Originally posted [here](http://hswc2013-r3.dreamwidth.org/10110.html).
> 
> Story was written by [Ella](http://sfingosella.tumblr.com/) and [Sxiz](http://sxizzor.tumblr.com/). Dirk's notes were written by [Laney](http://itskouplease.tumblr.com/). Recipe and cookbook excerpt were written by [Ketsu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ketsu).
> 
> This fic contains non-consensual elements, but no actual sex. A full warning is available in the end notes for the spoiler-averse.

Good morning shithead,

If you had half a fucking brain left rattling around in there after years of deathbot battles, you'd have noticed by now that there's a storm coming in. Guess what. It's a real fuckin' doozy. Your power's gonna be on and off and since you do have a whole half of a brain, I bet you're realizing by now that your food supply is running low. Since you can't fish or net any gulls right now, I thought I'd send you some food so you don't fucking die. Enjoy the scrambled seagull eggs with extra whites. You're welcome, you worthless fuckstain.

-Dirk

Well, fuck.

You head on up to the roof to see if you can spot anything out on the horizon. Naturally, you can’t. It sure as hell would have been nice to know which direction the storm was coming from, or something else useful. You try and tell yourself that you obviously didn't need any more info, otherwise Future Dirk would have sent it to you. Unless he was being constrained by the stable time loop, in which case it wasn't his fault, and you shouldn't be angry at him. Then you stop trying to tell yourself that, because any excuse to be pissed at that asshole is a good one.

In any case, the storm obviously doesn't kill you, so you guess there's not all that much to worry about. Probably.

The plate is sitting on the kitchen counter when you get there. Scrambled eggs, extra whites, because of course he's going to give you some bland, tasteless shit when you have literally no other options so he can keep most of the yolk for himself.

You sit down on the couch and dig in. It tastes kind of weird. Weird like... what kind of seasoning did this guy use? Why even try to spice things up for you?

You consider the possibility of it being poisoned. Nothing lethal, obviously, but maybe something strong enough to make you sick for a day or two. Why? Why not? What else have you ever done for yourself besides survive and make yourself wish you hadn't?

But you don't get sick that night, even after you reheat the leftovers for dinner with some seagull meat stirred in to make it not actually taste like old eggs. It almost works, but the microwave makes them so rubbery that you can barely eat the damn things. You chalk up your earlier suspicions to your brain trying to fuck with you, and you go to bed listening to the sound of a brewing storm off in the distance.

Hi dickhead,

Not that you deserve it, but here's some more food. Tuna sashimi with a homemade dipping sauce, as if it would be any other kind. I hope it makes you choke. Why am I even saying this. I know it doesn't. I lived through the tuna sashimi days. I guess I'm just hoping my self-loathing is strong enough to change the fabric of reality itself. I've always been a bit of a fuckin' optimist.

-Dirk

God, why did you let your food stores get so low? The seagulls vanished two days ago, probably because of the approaching storm, but you shouldn't have put off fishing. Some days nothing bites, and yesterday was one of those days. And now it's too dangerous to go outside at all.

The wind picks up with a howl that makes you flinch. Future Dirk is probably remembering that right now and laughing his ass off at what a pansy you're being, even though he's not any less anxious in a storm than you are. It's easy to forget how nerve-wracking something can be when it's no longer threatening to knock your whole building over.

You start to contemplate whether it would be more or less spiteful to use chopsticks with the sashimi, but the most spiteful thing is to not fucking care at all. The forks are closer. You grab one and start eating. The sashimi itself isn't anything special, but the sauce has a flavor you can't place. It's sort of bitter, but not in a way that ruins the whole dish. It's actually kind of good. With your luck you won't actually make these meals for months, and you won't have the pleasure of discovering the secret ingredient, or whatever the fuck he put in the sauce, until then.

Hey fucknuts,

Yeah, you're still storm-ridden. The recipe was for chicken noodle soup but that sounded stupid so I made it with seagull meat and ramen. Since I'm basically your mom and dad and motherfuckin' housewife rolled into one. I hope you take some time to appreciate not slowly sinking into the welcoming embrace of death thanks to this exclusive transtemporal meals on wheels delivery. Just don't get too used to it.

-Dirk

"Thank you, daddy," you say to empty air.

He used a fucking recipe. Something's _really_ not right here. If he was just following the loop, and all this was really random or whatever, you'd think you'd have woken up to a cool present and nice letter from Future Dirk at some point before. Or maybe he'd refuse because he'd rather cause a time paradox that unravels reality than be a decent human being for five minutes. But neither of those things have ever happened, presumably because you're such a stubborn shitstain that the universe doesn't even bother trying to force you to be nice to yourself.

Maybe you get sick or something, or you're about to get sick, and that's why you're having bird pasta soup. Isn't that supposed to be good for colds and stuff? Whatever. It tastes alright. And at least eating is something interesting to do. You had to cover the solar panels before the storm hit, and you're trying to save the power you have. This, of course, means you've been fighting off boredom mostly by fiddling with robot parts or puppets or your dick, or any combination of the three simultaneously, plus whatever else you can think of that doesn't require more than your healthy imagination and/or a flashlight, which isn't much. There haven't been any good opportunities to wander around Derse, either, not that you would have been able to safely focus on your dream self anyway, what with all the noise outside. You can't even have a long, hot shower. It's entirely possible you hate storms more than any incarnation of you has ever hated any other incarnation.

Suddenly you regret ever having that exact thought (or at least living long enough to remember it later when you're feeling particularly spiteful), because the next thing you know, a bucket of chum appears out of nowhere in the air above you and falls on your head, soaking you and the couch around you. Now you're wet and cold and everything smells fucking awful. Fantastic. At least you aren't _hungry_ , right?

You pull the bucket off, toss it over the back of the couch, and spend a few minutes sitting very still and wondering just how you got to be such a petulant jackoff that you'd sendificate freezing water and rotting fish guts to dump on your own head from the future -- and for what? For momentarily forgetting that nothing could ever fuck you over harder than yourself?

You're not cleaning the couch off, that's for damn sure. This is Future Dirk's fault, so you're not touching it until you can't stand the smell anymore, at which point it will probably be ruined and you'll probably be pissed enough at Past Dirk to grab the grossest stuff you have on hand and send it his way. Who the hell does he think he is, being so fucking ornery he'd rather keep a piece of furniture soaked in decaying fish water than pass up the chance to make himself miserable later? You're looking forward to teaching him a lesson.

But for now, you just get up and head to the shower, hoping you can spend long enough in it to achieve some semblance of cleanliness without getting frostbite.

Look, here's your fucking food. I'm too sick of this to feed your narcissistic hateboner today. It's caviar.

-Dirk

You've had fish eggs before, or some kind of sea creature eggs anyway, when you found a clutch underwater and attached to the side of one of your apartment's supports. They tasted like salty rotten fish. The caviar -- and you're pretty sure you have to do fancy shit to fish eggs before it officially becomes caviar, but whatever -- tastes like extra salty rotten fish. You crush up some dry ramen with it to give it some texture, just to the point where you no longer feel like you’re just swallowing mouthfuls of tiny eyeballs.

You should have known he'd pull something like this, but what else can you do? You're hungry. You eat enough to hold you over until he sends you something else tomorrow -- although the storm looks like it's clearing up, and you have enough food here to last a couple more meals anyways -- and flush the rest.

Later that day, you decide you've had enough of sitting around your apartment with your thumb up your ass, like you swear if you have to smell that putrid couch for five seconds longer you're going to either hurl or break something with the sheer force of your impotent rage, so you decide that the healthy thing to do is obviously to brave the weather and head outside. You comb the rooftop for damaged equipment and find enough shit that needs fixing to keep you busy for a week to come. You have to wear a raincoat because the sky doesn't know when to fucking quit, but the air is much calmer, and you can see sunlight through the slowly fading cloud cover. The decline was too gradual to be the eye of a hurricane this strong, so it must mean that the storm is actually almost over. Holy shit, you're in the clear. Now you can go back to eating real food.

That isn't to say that the food Future Dirk sent you was _fake_ , but. Well. There was always just this undertaste that lingered on your tongue, something bitter at the back of your throat after you finished your meal. You thought you recognized it, but every attempt at placing it left you grasping for the right words. It wasn't exactly like freezer-burn, although maybe it was something similar. Sendificator-burn, maybe. Perhaps temporal dislocation has a negative effect on the flavor profile of a dish. Who knows, and more importantly, who the fuck cares; it is officially no longer your problem. You think you even see a few seagulls in the distance heading back this way.

~♠~♠~♠~

As it turns out, your earlier estimate of a week for the roof repairs turns into something a bit more like a month. You haven't gotten any more food or notes from Future Dirk, so you figure he's considering his obligation to your continuing survival sufficiently fulfilled, or maybe he just knows better than to bother you when you're this busy with manual labor. It's probably more like he'd rather not think about you unless he has to, and to be honest, you're grateful to not have to deal with him anymore... at least not for the time being.

The repairs give you something to do and an excuse to spend most of your time outside, which is welcome after spending all that time alone indoors eating gross food and masturbating and reading passive-aggressive notes. Now you can eat fresh food and get some exercise and not have to look at yourself. What a delightful turn of events.

You're almost done cleaning everything up, but today you found a leak you missed that had started dripping through the ceiling over your electronics, and that shit was just not going to fly. So instead of being outside in the sun, you're crawling around your attic on your hands and knees -- with your rump in the air kind of jutting out and impudent -- feeling around for wet spots to patch up.

Most of the junk up here consists of a rapidly depleting store of orange soda, but there's some other stuff too, like an impossibly high stack of journals that your Bro left behind. You've read through some of them, but to be honest you find them pretty fucking dense and you abandoned the idea of reading them all a long time ago. You find his movies to be a much more succinct and transparent window to his soul anyway.

There's some other shit, like a Snoopy Sno Cone machine, which has to be some kind of twisted joke, and a rocking horse that Sawtooth brought down for you on your third birthday. It's too small for you now, so you hauled it back up here your own damn self a few years ago (although not as many years ago as you'll readily admit). There's also a really fucking disturbing collection of dead animals in jars of blue and green fluid that you've been too wigged out about to ever investigate in much detail, but they're labeled "Bro's favorite pets -- treat them with care.”

You have the weirdest Bro, and ain't nobody gonna try to argue that point with you.

After passing by all that stuff, you wind up in a remote corner of the attic. It's tight back here because the roof is so close to the floor, but it's also damp, so this must be the money shot. You start moving things out of the way so you can patch the leak, but then your eyes happen to fall on a book. It appears to be a cookbook with some kind of tart -- or maybe a quiche or something, it's not like _you_ know anything about gourmet food -- on the cover. Weird. You had no idea your Bro was into cooking for himself.

Wait a second. Wait one fucking second. Hadn't Future Dirk mentioned a recipe? Maybe this was where he got the recipes -- or you guess at this point it's no longer he, maybe now it's you. This is where you get the recipes. God, why would you ever go to the trouble of following a recipe for your own sorry ass, especially if it's your past sorry ass who gets the benefit of eating the fruits of your labor? Fuck that guy.

You open the book and flip through the pages, looking at pictures of perfectly plated dishes that look nothing like the slop you’re going to send Past Dirk. Still, a couple of them look like high-end versions of some of the things you ate. You stop on a page and skim over the recipe.

### Spotted Dick and Dick By-Products

_Your dick will be the talk of the town when you follow this simple recipe._

### Ingredients:

4 oz flour  
3 oz suet, grated  
1 tbsp semen  
2 tbsp water  
4 oz raisins or other dried fruits  


### Directions:

1\. Mix the flour, fruits, and suet lightly by hand.  
2\. Add semen and stir. The amount can be varied to taste or for texture.  
3\. Add water, stir until ingredients are well-mixed.  
4\. Roll mixture into a cylindrical shape, then wrap in wax paper and tie into a cloth. Boil on stovetop for two to three hours.  
5\. While still hot, cut into 1" slices. Serve with Special Dipping Sauce (page 40).

  


The accompanying picture looks kind of like a fruit cake smothered in bukkake sauce. Must be the special dipping sau-- wait, hold the motherfucking phones, stop the presses, delay hitting send on that blog post, quit whatever the hell it is you're doing and go back to that part that says _semen_.

Your blood runs cold for a moment as you process this, and you flip frantically to the beginning of the book, where you stop on a page of the book's introduction.

Semen is also surprisingly nutritious; not only is it low in calories, it also provides ample amounts of fructose, zinc, and vitamin C. Your natural byproducts are not only healthy, but also easy to come by, pun fully intended, in most households.

It's only natural to feel some hesitance at the idea of ingesting human semen, but it's no stranger than some of the food humans regularly partake of. Eggs, tongue, and brains are downright bizarre things to eat when you think about it, but these are all regular staples of the human diet around the world, and that's not even getting into the fact that many of us consume the mammary excretions of assorted members of the animal kingdom on a daily basis. (On that note, please consider browsing _The Big Cheese: Cooking With Human Breast Milk_ , the companion book to _Nuts and Cream_.)

No.

Fuck no.

You knew there was something in that food. You god damned _knew_. You can’t ever make anything too easy on yourself, right? Can't do something nice for yourself without copious amounts of strings attached.

Fuck future-present-you with the shittiest, most breakable katana in existence.

You flip back to the recipes, skimming over the ingredients of the dishes you ate. An ounce of semen here, a few tablespoons of jizz there, a light drizzle of spunk on the side, you know, just for flavor. Splooge in the eggs, come in the soup, and don't forget the Special-fucking-Sauce.

You let the book slide out of your hands and fall the short distance to the floor. Yeah, sure, you're grossed out, but you're also a little intimidated by how much jerking off you're going to have to do over the next week just to properly get back at yourself for such an egregious show of disrespect. What a stupid power play. What a disgusting, imbecilic way to make a point. What a dickhead.

The emotions that wash over you change so rapidly that you can't keep track. Disgust, disbelief, self-doubt, and finally a growing sense of righteous anger. You've got to show that motherfucker who's the boss around here. He needs to be taken by the hand and gently led to his fucking place so that he can know where the hell it is. 

You are going to make that asshole eat so much come, his eyeballs are gonna be _swimming_ in it.  


**Author's Note:**

> Okay so the spoiler is that this story is about non-consensual come-eating. Somehow we got fourth place for this.


End file.
